First Blood
by Zeff N Company
Summary: FtSKM: D-District Prison fic. There is death, and there is a fate worse than death. There is a monster, and there is a type of person - if you could still call him one - who is worse than a monster.


_Original prompt: "__I DARE YOU WRITERS OUT THERE! I prompt the famous torture and/or prison scene from FF VIII with Cloud featuring as Seifer(Or by Seifers side)! If he's good or evil is up to anon.__"_

_Since this piece was written in first person, I suppose it could as easily be anyone else behind the mask. I'll leave that interpretation up to you._

_Thanks for stopping by - I'm __(at the moment) __particularly satisfied with how this piece turned out, and I hope you'll _…_ well _…_ enjoy(?) it too.  
_

* * *

It was one fine day where the world was happy and all was at peace. Not one man, woman or child was afraid of their future – their future was written for them, and it promised them many good years to come.

And then one little acorn falls. Falls from a great height. Down. Down. Until it lands on the head of a scared little chicken.

The sky is falling. The sky is falling.

This sort of thing is only supposed to happen in cartoons and comics and movies – the local enforcement just waits around for a greater hero to dump a criminal in their laps. No one told me this sort of thing happened for real.

No one told me how big a shock it could be.

And then it's one shock after the next – I'm just getting over the fact that someone just fell off the top of the Sorceress' float with an icicle sticking out of his body, and now I have to deal with the fact that he's miraculously alive. Moving. Fighting back.

But everything impossible has robbed him of his strength. He can't even raise his arms above his head. He's choking on his blood as he takes wild, blind swings at us, trying to fend us off.

And then he falls, landing in a crumpled heap at our feet. My feet. I'm right in front of him, and it takes me a few seconds to let my training kick in. My hands move of their own accord, gloved fingers seizing a fistful of hair. And then I'm lifting him upright once more.

He kneels before me, his legs too weak to support himself any more than that – probably waiting to give out altogether once I let go. His arms have fallen limp by his sides, and his weapon is on the ground directly under his right hand. He is beaten. He is not as dangerous to anyone now. He is ready to be taken into custody. These are things they train you to see without really seeing; things you are supposed to see while doing your job.

Then there are the things they can't train you to see – the things that you naturally see because they're right there, and you're never ready for it.

An incredibly young face. The features of someone who should be in school, whose biggest problems would be psycho teachers and pointless frats, stupid bullies and hot dates, parents who don't know anything and grades that can never seem to meet their liking. A face that does not belong on the bleeding broken body of a criminal.

My glove is wet from holding him up. Wet and sticky. He has a head wound – probably more than one. Maybe they are superficial, or maybe they aren't. Can't tell right now, not with all that is going on. My glove is getting heavier and thicker with every breath I take – how much blood is this boy losing? I see a long scar across the bridge of his nose – was it a gang fight? Abuse? Part of his job? – for a total of two seconds. I'm not allowed more. His eyes won't let me.

Those eyes aren't child's eyes. They burn and glow like silver, lighting up the darkness. Not the light of stars, but the light of fire, flames waiting to devour all that enter their path of destruction. Icy blue fire that is intense and serious, homing in on me through my visor, searing into my soul.

He is surprisingly conscious, surprisingly coherent. Those eyes are too bright and focused to suggest delirium, too angry and intense to suggest fear. I see what he wants me to see, what he wants me to know. I see his message in that fire …

_Shoot, coward. You're only killing a man._

I stare back at him, waiting. I think any second he will pass out, will stop looking at me like this. He doesn't. He clings onto his consciousness, weak as he is, and he is waiting as well. Each of us waits for the other to strike first.

"Soldier!"

Another voice. I look up. Standing before me, his gray coat smeared in fresh blood, is the Sorceress Knight. Sir Seifer Almasy. The herald of his lady and her mission. The turncoat. A few days ago, he was in front of a gun for threatening the life of my President. Now he is the one giving me orders.

He wipes the blood from his face with a filthy glove and gives me another order.

"What are you waiting for, man?" he barks at me. "Shoot him. Shoot him and be done with it."

Two youths. One for the good and one for the bad. They want the same thing.

I have a duty. I must follow orders. Not my choice to make.

It won't be my fault.

My finger does not move. I can't pull the trigger.

A see a spark in my prisoner's eyes – a familiar feeling of betrayal – and then those eyes finally slide shut. Under my sticky, blood-soaked glove, I can feel him go limp in my grasp. My agitated superior spits at my feet, glaring at me with contempt. Then he grabs the collar of a ruined jacket and wrests the prisoner from my hands.

"Fine, then …" he grumbles. "One more criminal to arrest."

And then I see the glint in his eyes, so different from the pair I was forced to stare into earlier. At least the prisoner's had a calm focus to them, but these … there is madness in them. A loss of direction. A loss of control.

"Maybe I should thank you, huh?" he suddenly says, his words directed at me once more. "Yeah … yeah, maybe I should. You're coming with us. I'm gonna reward you. I'm gonna let you watch. You'll get to see what's a fate worse than death."

Words that should not come from a voice that is deliberately lowered to a growl when it's meant to be higher. The voice of a boy trying to be a man should never utter such words.

"When I'm through with him … he'll _beg_ you to shoot him dead," he growls – the grin on his face tells me he pleases himself at that thought. "You're gonna love it."

And then he straightens, dragging the other beside him like a sack. He carelessly shoves the deadweight back in my hands.

"Let's go," he orders, eerily calm in sudden contrast to what I just witnessed. "… And from now on, I'm calling you Chicken-Wuss. You understand me?"

But I'm not …

I'm …

I'm a soldier. I'm an enforcer of law and security. I live to serve Galbadia and my President. I fight to protect my country and my people. I will die to save lives. I am trained to believe all those ideals even if I have not seen the blood of another until now.

I'm a soldier. A good soldier.

And a few minutes ago, I had my gun shoved against the forehead of a kid who is six years younger than me and by no means meant to be here. I was taking orders from another kid, and he was behind me and he was telling me – _ordering_ me to kill him.

We are at war. We are at war and no one told me.

This was not what I … no … This _is_ what I was meant to do. It's not my fault the rules just changed.

I'm a good soldier. I follow orders. I have no other choice.

"Chicken-Wuss. I said, _you understand me?_"

None of this is my fault.

"Sir, yes sir."

It's yours, you little sicko.

* * *

Name: Squall Leonhart

Age: Seventeen

Charged for the attempted assassination of Sorceress Edea and crimes against Galbadia.

The sentence is death.

And by the time he is through with "questioning", he will welcome it with tears and open arms.

It has been a week since his arrest and consequential detainment in D-District prison. It's his first time here, as it is mine. I had heard stories, before, of how this place is used to keep the world's dangers and evils confined in metal boxes, buried from the sight of the innocent. And now that I'm here, within that box's depths, I find it strangely, strangely … quiet.

Who knew that hell was quiet, dark and cold, where sheer isolation in between periods of sensory deprivation could drive you to madness?

That was the idea – take away his will to fight, and maybe he will be more receptive to confession.

I'm his personal guard, his escort and his peanut gallery. My eyes see what he goes through day in and day out. I see the exhaustion, the pain and the madness eating at him, withering him to nothing … or trying to. He refuses to say a word. He will cry out, maybe even groan, but not one word to save him from this hell.

The bastards should be punished for what they do to him. None of this is right. None of this is humane. Hell is too good for them, for what they are doing to him.

And all throughout what they do, their little Devil's deputy laughs. Sir Almasy – Edea's spoiled brat – goads them to try just a little harder, to keep at it just a little longer, to see if they can make their victim scream just a little louder. He does not push boundaries – he makes them rupture with a sudden, muted "pop". Tiny explosions that do more damage and suffer more repercussions.

And no one stops him. Everyone encourages him.

Then, at the end of another day, Squall is mine again.

We aren't on good terms, but all we really have is each other to rely on to get through this hell – at least, I'd like to think so. I can't think that either of us is alone – being alone is another torture in itself.

He is … my friend, perhaps – my kindred spirit. I am his jailer. He won't talk to me, but I'll keep talking to him.

He's angry at those bastards who do this to him, but I'm not one of them. It's those others that do this to him. Not me. Their fault. Not mine. He has to understand that. He just refuses to right now.

It is the seventh day. There is no day of rest – just half an hour, at most. He lies curled up in a fetal position on the floor of his iron box, trembling with cold and agony. I stand outside the door with its too-tiny barred window. I have in my hands a book that was confiscated from a different revolutionary that was here before him. I read to him, try to take his mind off of things. It takes _my_ mind off of things …

"The war is the end times, and as their herald the phoenix comes. We are the phoenix, each and every one of us," I read aloud. I keep my voice too low to be overheard by my comrades, but I hope his hearing is still sharp enough to catch my words anyway. "We die in a burst of flames, burning out the last breath in our bodies … and then we rise again from the ashes of our old lives, reborn into new ones. And then we are burning anew, and within this old pain we have new determination. The flames forge our indomitable spirits-"

"Chicken-Wuss!"

I swear, each time Sir Almasy calls me that, I can see the boy twitch. I wonder if that's sympathy, empathy, or just a feeling of déjà vu. He twitches now. I salute.

"Sir."

The Sorceress' brat glares at my book, and I quickly stash it before either of us can offend him further. At least he doesn't try to confiscate it – I'd bet money that the little snot would get confused trying to read its cover anyway.

"Been keeping an eye on him, haven't you boy?" he asks me in a strangely irritating tone. I had a dog back home that my father used to talk to this way.

"Yes, sir."

"Good … yeah, that's real good …"

He trails off. His wild eyes dart about, and I can imagine his mind flailing in the stew of his messed up head for something sensible to seize. He doesn't look like he's finding anything. And then suddenly he does.

"I owe you, don't I Chicken-Wuss?" he asks me this time. "I said I was gonna reward you."

I wonder if I should speak, or if that would derail his already fragile mind. The little sicko might just turn on any one of us. Wouldn't matter to him. Wouldn't matter to his mommy dearest.

"I'm gonna reward you now," he repeats. "Open that door."

I do not question him. I just do as I'm told. He steps inside …

"Well, get in here," he mutters without looking at me. Whatever haunts him on a daily basis is driving him now. He barely sees me, but he needs me there for some reason. Maybe to watch again.

"Here …" and then his boot pokes Squall in the ribs. "He's all yours."

What?

"Go on. Hurt him. Bleed him. Hell, you want to screw him? Go ahead. I won't stop you," and there on his face is that sick, psychotic grin. "I'll even hold him down for you."

I stare down at that trembling body. Squall is listening to us. Squall knows what is about to happen. I think he's actually scared …

This is wrong. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be a part of this.

"Well, go on then."

No. Not like this.

"I know you've always wanted to, Chicken. C'mon … look at that meat." The boot roughly pulls against cloth to reveal the bruised skin wrapped over Squall's pelvis. "Who wouldn't turn gay for that, huh?"

This is inhuman. I can't just …

"… Fine, I _order_ you, you spineless wuss: _Have fun_."

My hands are trembling. I can feel cold sweat against clammy skin. My armor and uniform are stifling me, making it hard to breathe. I watch as Sir Almasy – as this demented youth called Seifer – grabs fistfuls of threadbare shirt and forces Squall onto his back. Boots press painfully into his ribs, one gloved hand clamps over his wrists and pulls them above his head. The other forces his chin up, to meet my eyes.

And Squall is staring at me, knowing what is about to happen. For the first time, I can see fear there. Death, he could deal with – death was something he could understand, accept, even show contempt for. But this … no one can be ready for this. No one can accept such an attack on their bodies.

A fate worse than death.

He was right. They were both right. I should have killed him when I had the chance. It would have been a mercy.

"Do it."

My body goes numb … or am I even still aware of what I'm doing? I've heard it's a natural reaction to a very stressful situation – you tune out, feel like a spectator of yourself. Sort of like an out-of-body experience … except there is no coma. You're still there, still moving. Your body moves on autopilot, and you're just watching it do whatever, all the while thinking to yourself, "that's not me."

_This is war. We are the phoenix. We will burn to death, and we will burn to live. We will be surrounded by flames that threaten us and kill us, and the flames will change us._

I watch my hands, realize they are no longer trembling now that I'm no longer in charge. They rip my gloves off.

I have my orders.

_The flames will forge us anew. A farmer will become a soldier. A simple man will lose his love for peace._

He is struggling, but he has been weakened by everything that he went through. He is powerless to stop Seifer, to stop what is about to happen.

I have no choice.

_And our smallest children will become our most lethal killers._

For the first time, Sir Almasy does not laugh. He does not smile. He only watches with some sort of twisted, sick fascination as my body does whatever he wants it to.

This is not my fault.

_Our children are our future. Our children will lead us all._

I tune out the rest. I stop watching. My body works fine on autopilot while I stay blind and deaf and mute. I block out what happens. I don't know. I don't want to know. Not my choice. Not my doing. Not my fault.

Blame Seifer Almasy. Blame the Sorceress. Blame the Galbadian government. Blame yourself.

It's. Not. My. Fault.

_We are the phoenix. We shall fly free._

* * *

It is the twelfth day, five days since Squall finally succumbed and slipped into a coma. Whatever it was that happened to him, it was too much. He needed to shut down or else he would lose his mind.

What have you done to him, Seifer Almasy?

Sick bastard. What have you done to him?

What else will you do to that poor kid?

My hands are always gloved now, no matter where I go. I can't look at them when they're exposed. I can't look at myself when I'm exposed. My helmet is my face. My gloves are my hands. My armor is my body. And whatever they do won't leave a print behind. They do not involve me.

I'm not involved.

"We're reviving him," Sir Almasy declares, addressing all of us wardens and guards, shirts and armors alike. "Edea's orders. We revive him and try something else."

This is cruel. Savage. Sick.

"You, and you. Get the crane ready. You, feed him the formula. And you, prep that special room."

Special room – oh gods.

_That_ room.

Hasn't he been through enough?

"You, Chicken-Wuss. You're with me."

"Sir, yes sir."

I follow my superior to the top floor. I can hear machinery grinding, and I notice the shadow of a metal arm fall over me as it emerges from its den. I see the Moombas – tiny beasts barely smart enough to do the most menial of tasks – scatter about and try to avoid getting kicked; some of the wardens still kick them anyway out of spite.

One of them looks older than the rest, if only because he's scarred and grizzled. They call him "Ragna" because that's the only intelligible near-word they've ever heard him utter – I've never heard him or any other Moomba actually speak, so I can't say for certain if it's true. He's the favorite, which only means they kick him more often and get him to do the harder stuff.

The gears get louder, and some of the Moombas whine and flatten their ears in distress. It gets louder still, until my own ears ring. Finally, the shadow gets bigger, and I see the iron box holding Squall lift into view. Then it slots into a new place. More gears turn and clatter, and then … silence.

"Quit gawking and take positions," Sir Almasy snaps at us. Then he starts walking. Again I follow. Behind us are two Moombas. Since that last incident, I've somehow become the brat's new best friend or something – stuff like dragging comatose bodies around is now beneath me. Leave that to the beasts of burden.

The cell door opens. I see Squall on his knees, shook up by all that rough moving. This time, I'm not invited inside when Sir Almasy enters the box.

"Squall, you're pathetic," he comments carelessly. He might as well be talking about the weather.

Squall tries to get up. He stumbles, collapses against Sir Almasy. For a second, he stops being the Sorceress Knight and is just a person again. He props him up, seems gentler, kinder … and then that second passes. He grabs a fistful of hair, turns the beaten youth around and slams him against a wall. I hear the loud clamor of metal, the softer, muted "crunch", and then Squall slumps to the ground once more, unmoving.

"Take him away!"

The Moombas rush forward and do as they are told. They are too short to lift him, forced to drag him instead, but even then they are gentle with him, trying to make the process as painless as possible. One of them gets blood on his paw, and curiously licks it. Coal eyes blink and widen before the creature turns to the other. They growl and mewl to each other in discussion until Sir Almasy's boot deliberately misses their heads.

"_GET ON WITH IT!_"

Each day is another battle with madness. For me. For him. He is more insane and lost with each day that he is here, struggling to earn another hug from his mommy. A little psycho bastard trying to make his psycho mommy proud. All this is his doing. His fault.

At last, we make it within the torture chamber.

The Moombas are too short to get him up on the rack, so at last it's my turn to move him. Between myself and the warden, Squall is chained to a crucifix embedded into the wall, wires and clamps set at every corner. I don't know how any of this works, but I know what it is meant to do. I'm about to see it all over again …

"Wait outside, wuss."

… or maybe not.

I obey my orders. I go outside. The door slides shut behind me, but it is far from soundproof. I hear that spoiled brat shouting at Squall to wake up. I hear chains rattle and bang against the metal wall.

I hear Squall rouse.

I hear him speak for the first time.

"… what do you want …?"

The usual routine goes down. The interrogator asks his question, the stubborn prisoner says he does not know. That's when the "fun" begins.

"… here's a little something for you …" Sir Almasy declares smugly.

Oh gods, it begins.

I hear seven thunders boom. I hear terrible screams rip from Squall's throat. I hear the chains rattle again as he thrashes in a futile attempt to break free. And then I hear it stop, leaving nothing but echoes and pained sobs for breath. Another question is asked … it will never stop. Not until someone is satisfied or someone is dead.

This shouldn't be happening. Not to Squall. Not to anyone.

But this is war. Children have to be on the front lines of war. Children have to be war's first casualties. It's the only way to challenge a person's morals and make them hate it and want to stop it in any way they can.

I hear a soft growl to my side. I look down. A Moomba – Ragna is sniffing at my glove … no. He is sniffing _through_ my glove. My hand.

The other Moombas had smelled Squall's blood. He tracked it to me. To my hand.

He knows what Seifer did. He knows what Seifer forced me to do.

He suddenly looks straight at me, his beady eyes hard and brittle. He curls his upper lip, baring impressively sharp teeth, but he does not growl.

I hear him speak for the first time.

"… Cowarrrrrrrd …"

_You little son of a-!_

My rifle swings at him, but he is already scuttling out of reach. Still glaring at me. Still branding me with his accusation.

_Stupid beast!_ _You don't know anything! You don't know what I'm forced to go through!_

_What gives you the right to judge me?_

* * *

"… I … don't understand … the question …"

"Don't mess with me! Edea says you know something. Now spit it out!"

It begins again. It will never end.

Even Sir Almasy has grown tired of this lack of sport. He ditched this place, ditched his own party. He left to take part in some real action, leaving the rest of us to play with his leftovers. Don't mind us, boss, you go have fun. We'll clean up the mess while you're away. It's what we do. It's what we good little soldiers do.

In his place, some guy called Lieutenant Biggs was called in to take over. Just what we need – another incompetent oaf in this racket. Just another guy to take my orders from.

The warden has his orders – keep frying Squall until he either says something useful or dies. I have my orders – let him. Just make sure nothing goes wrong.

I'm not needed to guard the door anymore. My privilege ended when my superior dumped me here. It was only a matter of time before the brat lost interest and found himself a shinier toy to play with, anyway.

So I leave. To stay anymore would mean to hear a kid die. I can't do that. I can't bear to hear them kill him.

So I find myself instead back to regular guard duty. I'm with another guard. I'm not alone in this nonsense.

"Here–" he hands me a familiar looking weapon. "–the almighty Knight said this is yours now. That SeeD won't be needing it."

_Squall_'s weapon. It is shining silver in my hands, a most fascinating and curious sight. A revolver's grip and trigger and cylinder barrel. A one-sided blade with a lion engraved in fiery colors on its surface.

I swing it. It's actually heavy – I didn't think Squall could possess such strength.

"This is a gunblade?" I query aloud. My comrade merely shrugs. I set it down again amidst the other strange weapons. A whip and a pair of nun-chucks. Such stuff that you won't see in the Galbadian army under any occasion.

"I heard you're the one who captured their leader," my comrade speaks up. "Rumors all over this place about what you did to him."

I freeze. My blood runs cold.

"Is it true, man?"

No.

It wasn't me.

"Heard you did stuff to him while he was down."

It was Seifer. Not me.

"… was it … you know … like they say?"

IT. WASN'T. ME.

"The hell?"

What?

I look up, then behind me. Standing there, battered and bruised, is a teenager with a black drake tattooed on the side of his face. A SeeD. One of the SeeD terrorists.

The only one to be found without weapons – no guns, no knives, not even a lousy rock.

And to be without a weapon …

"Yo," he greets simply. One fist slams into the other with a thud that actually echoes through the prison, and he grins at us with boyish cheekiness. "I'm here to reclaim these."

… means he _does not need one_.

* * *

I wake to sirens. The alarm is sounding over my head. I hear an announcement – monsters being released. Not a good sign. Need to get out of here. Need to–

Gods, that hurts.

My body is still in so much pain from the beating I just endured. It hurts to breathe; my sides are burning – the SeeD kid must have broken a number of my ribs, if not all of them. My visor is cracked, white spiders spreading over my line of vision.

The surroundings is a wash of red around me. Like being slapped by color – color where air once was. Red like sunset, red like dawn. Red like blood and danger. Red all around me. I see red. I breathe red. I'm filled with red.

It is the most terrifying thing.

I reach for my rifle. I find it bent and broken – damn, were those kid's fists made of _adamantine?_

I don't know how it is possible, but I hear through the blaring of sirens … footsteps. A small crowd coming my way. Are they my comrades? Are they my allies? Or are they my enemies?

Then I see them. Then I know.

A girl with black hair – that special one that we were instructed to not hurt under any circumstance; the daughter of someone in a high place, I think. There's the kid with the terror fists, but they don't lash out at me this time. They are too occupied holding someone up.

Squall.

He looks terrible. Blood is running down his face and trickling out the corner of his mouth. The hand not hauled over the brawler's shoulders hangs limply at his side; he can't even carry a weapon, because I can see the girl doing it for him. His legs are pretty much deadweights under him, barely moving, and most of his weight is being supported by his friend.

And even beaten down to this, his eyes are open, still trying to maintain focus on what must be done.

That kid isn't human. No human could go through what he did without falling apart.

"Oh hey, it's you again," the brawler greets me, glaring at me in warning – _Don't you dare get up._ "The guy who did this to Squall."

No. It wasn't me. I didn't do it.

"You're wrong," I rasp out. "It wasn't me."

He pauses, confused. "But your buddy said-"

"It was Sir Almasy," I tell him. "It was his idea. He made me do it."

Confusion clears. He is glaring again. "So you _did_ do it, then."

"I was following orders. I had no choice."

"_You animal!_" the girl shouts at me. "How could you do this? _How could you do this to another person?_"

… animal … ? _ANIMAL?_

"_You don't know anything!_" I return. "You think I _liked_ listening to that cur? I had no choice … _It wasn't me!_"

Squall lifts his head, stares right at me. I can't speak anymore as I look into fire that is all too familiar.

"Zell …" he speaks softly, probably too weakened to raise his voice. He pulls away, and his friend hesitates to let go of him.

To my surprise, the kid walks. He makes the entire trek toward me before dropping to one knee beside me. He is strong, too alarmingly strong. I can't fight this. I can't-

He grabs me by my chest plate, and I can feel in that grip that he doesn't have it in him for a fight right now. So what is he doing? What is he trying to achieve?

"Look at me," he says, his voice still barely above a whisper. Then, as his weak hand clenches into a fist, "_Look at me._"

That fire again. Burning through my cracked visor. Scorching me from the inside out. Purging every secret and thought and …

Make it stop. Please make it stop.

"I'm a monster," he continues. "I was raised to kill, and I kill on a daily basis. I am paid to murder, and I feed children with blood money. I look into the face of evil every day – the face that looks just like mine; the face that looks just like yours. I go to bed every night with the dying screams of someone's son or daughter ringing in my ears, and then I wake up in the morning to kill again. It is my life. The blood is on my hands, and I don't bother trying to wash it off, because that blood means I killed someone to save another.

"Because that is what I am. That is what it means to be a mercenary. That is what it means to be a SeeD."

And then he pulls me closer still. Close enough that I can smell blood and bile on his breath, that I can see the crusts that was blood coming out of his nose and ears. I can see all that hell he went through until he emerged from the other side.

"I know what I am. I don't deny it. I know the blood is on me and I know I will pay for it. I admit to it. I will confess to it. If I die for it, I die without regrets." At last he lets me go. "That's what makes us different. That's why I'm the monster … and you're just pathetic."

Then he starts to fall … but he doesn't fall far. Terror Fists is there to catch him and pull him to his feet again. One last reproachful glare in my direction, and he turns and hauls Squall away, back on the route to freedom. The girl follows them without so much as another glance at me.

I am alone. Alone in a giant iron box. Alone with nothing but the screams of an alarm and the growls of monsters and the shouts of fallen comrades.

Alone with my thoughts.

I look at my hands. My gloves are gone. My hands are exposed. The light hits them.

I see red.

Red like blood.

* * *

_As usual, I advertise: __If there is something you'd like to see happen in FFNet for Squall/Leon x Cloud, drop on by the Strifehart Kink Meme ( http : / community. livejournal. com/ cleonrp/ 2723. html ). My fellow writers and myself would love to get our paws into it. _


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